‘And Dame Marguerite simply accepted that?’
‘At first there’d be protests, doubts, but I am sure that in that pannier you have a letter from Gaston, a ring perhaps, some keepsake? More importantly, you loved Gaston, you’d lived with him, he was significant in your life as he had been in Dame Marguerite’s. You described him closely, both body and soul. It would not take long to convince Dame Marguerite.’
‘She was an abbess …’
‘No, Master Benedict, first and foremost she was Gaston’s ardent lover. She obliquely referred to dreams of the past. He was the great passion of her youth. She and Gaston would have kept this hidden from Scrope, but a flame burns as strong secretly as it does clearly in the light of day. I talked to old servants at the manor; they did not deny that. I suggest the pair of them plighted their troth, swore eternal vows before Gaston left with Scrope for Outremer. Dame Marguerite waited for news. Eventually it came: her brother was coming home, but her beloved Gaston, the heart of her life, was dead.’ Master Benedict was now attentive, eyes watchful.
‘Dame Marguerite could give herself to no one else so she took the solemn vows of a Benedictine nun, assumed the veil and entered St Frideswide. Scrope, entertaining the only guilt he ever suffered, patronised and favoured his sister and she eventually became abbess. Dame Marguerite, however, never forgot Gaston. She wore the ring Gaston gave her as his pledge. I thought the design on it was a deer; in fact it was a stag, the same emblazoned on Gaston’s coat of arms as well as on the memorials to him in St Alphege’s, the manor chapel and St Frideswide. Indeed, these were Marguerite’s tribute to the great love of her life. I doubt if Scrope had anything to do with that. He preferred to forget Gaston, but he had to play the part and indulge his adoring sister. Dame Marguerite had chantry masses sung for Gaston; her community often prayed for his soul. Then you arrived with news that cracked all the foundations of her world.’ Corbett paused. He threw more kindling into the flames and stared around. Ranulf still leaned against the pillar, staring malevolently at Master Benedict. Chanson sat open-mouthed by the door, marvelling at the story his master was telling.
‘I can only imagine the darkness that engulfed Dame Marguerite’s soul,’ Corbett declared. ‘The lies, the tragedy, the loss of her beloved, the evil deeds of her brother, the waste of her own life, the living of a lie!’
‘The serpent truly entered Eden!’ Ranulf called out.
‘Yes, that’s what it was. You were the serpent, Master Benedict. Publicly you were the pious chaplain; privately you wound yourself around Dame Marguerite’s soul. Did you seduce her? Did she try and take from you what she had lost? I think that you kindled her murderous fury against her evil brother whilst smilingly inviting her to participate in his destruction.’
Master Benedict gazed back, cold-eyed.
‘All was ready,’ Corbett continued. ‘Messages were sent to the Free Brethren and they duly landed at Dover and journeyed into Essex. Dame Marguerite, at your insistence still playing the faithful sister, the pious abbess, persuaded her brother that the Free Brethren were no danger, so they were allowed to shelter here in Mordern. Secretly, however, you plotted: weapons were bought and practised upon; a plan of the reclusorium was produced, the secret ford described.’
‘Secret ford?’ Master Benedict jibed.
‘Yes the secret ford across the lake to the Island of Swans known to Scrope, Gaston and Dame Marguerite when they played there as children. I mentioned it last night. Dame Marguerite told you about it, she must have done; that is how you, the killer, crossed. After all, you often visited the manor, Master Benedict. You would become accustomed to crossing over, especially during those spring and summer days, well hidden by that clump of willows behind the reclusorium. You’d also steal out to meet the Free Brethren, and, of course, they were entertained at St Frideswide, where you all could plot to your hearts’ content. Except for Jackanapes, fey-witted he might have been, but he could still have noticed something amiss.’
‘Yet it was Dame Marguerite who told you that he came here …’
‘Of course she did, providing valuable information to sustain both your roles as innocents in this matter. You were offering us Jackanapes as a valuable witness, but not for long. He would die before I ever questioned him.’
‘Are you alleging I was the Sagittarius?’ Master Benedict declared. ‘Remember that evening in Mistleham: Dame Marguerite and I were with you when the Sagittarius blew his horn.’
‘Yes, that was strange,’ Corbett conceded. ‘As it is that you mention it now. That evening the horn was blown, but no attack was launched. Why? I suspect that earlier that day, before you attended the banquet, you secretly visited Jackanapes the fool, and bribed him with good silver to blow that horn late at night. You then met him afterwards to pay and collect the horn. After all, a horn is easy to carry and easy to hide; many people have them. On that particular evening you just wished to confuse; you did the same when we journeyed here to clear the dead. It was so easy to slip away into the ruins or the trees and blow three swift blasts, again for the same effect: to confuse, to make me wonder if the Sagittarius really was someone distinct from all those I had met in Mistleham.’
‘I was also in the marketplace when Jackanapes was killed.’
‘Nonsense! You were there because you knew that was where he lived, and for all I know, you invited him to meet you there for payment. Jackanapes was certainly marked down for death. First because of the horn, and second because he’d been out to Mordern and St Frideswide and may have, in his own antic way, seen or heard something untoward. Now, around the market square in Mistleham stand houses with row upon row of tenements. Most of them are owned by Lord Scrope; some of the rents have been granted to Claypole, even more to St Frideswide’s. Garrets and attics, shabby little rooms, stairwells and chambers no bigger than a box, shadowy, narrow places; easy to conceal a bow and a quiver of arrows, easy for someone like yourself, with keys from Dame Marguerite, to slip like a thief up the stairs, seize the concealed bow, then through some arrow slit, hole or window take aim and unleash death. Lady Hawisa’s men, led by Pennywort, will make a sweep of such hiding holes. I wager they’ll find bows and arrows hidden away. That’s what you did when you killed Jackanapes: hastened up a flight of stairs to let murder take wing. Two shafts for Jackanapes – you had to be sure he was dead, his gabbling mouth silenced for ever – then you re-emerged as the pious chaplain.’
‘So I am a master bowman as well as a priest?’
‘Too true,’ Corbett agreed, ‘and a very good one! The Sagittarius is a matter to be discussed, but let us return to late last summer. All was secure. You were so assured you made your first mistake. In your confidence you decided to taunt Scrope with that painting. He must have been furious at being given such a brutal, stark reminder of his evil deeds, being portrayed as a Judas. Little wonder he promised to renovate St Alphege’s, a small price to pay for removing that painting. You totally underestimated Scrope, an evil, vengeful man. He bided his time, but you, the master mason of murder, made your second mistake. Brother Gratian visited you here. He’d served as a soldier and he noticed how one of the funeral crosses had been used as a whetstone to sharpen blades. Finally John Le Riche, the robber, with his ill-gotten gains, arrived from Westminster. Like any outlaw he sought refuge in Mordern Forest, and the Free Brethren took him under their wing. In many ways your associates were not children of this world; they cared little for wealth. They may also have been curious about Le Riche’s secret relationship with Master Claypole and indeed Lord Scrope. Anyway, Le Riche left most of his booty here in trust before he journeyed into Mistleham to do business with Claypole and Scrope. Of course that precious pair duped him. They arrested Le Riche, drugged him, tried him and hanged him out of hand. Again the Free Brethren showed compassion as well as overconfidence. They cut down Le Riche’s corpse and buried him and his treasure here under a certain headstone, scrawling the memorial on the sacristy wall of this church. How does i
t go? “Rich, shall richer be, Where God kissed Mary in Galilee.”’
‘I certainly agree with your judgement on Scrope,’ Master Benedict murmured.
‘You still underestimated him,’ Corbett declared sharply. ‘The painting, the weapons, and, I suspect, he discovered that not only had Le Riche sheltered in Mordern, but most of his booty still lay hidden here. Enough was enough. The Free Brethren were a real danger. Scrope was very frightened. How had they discovered his sin? His Judas-like conduct? Had someone survived the fall of Acre, someone who knew everything? Or was it Gratian or even Claypole? Whatever, they had to be silenced. Scrope became busy sowing rumours, allegations against the Free Brethren, and then he struck. He acted the manor lord defending his own, the faithful son of the Church attacking heretics. The Free Brethren were swiftly massacred. Scrope did not find the treasure, nor had he the wit to understand the scrawl on the sacristy wall. He killed them all, then left their corpses to rot. Why? Well, first he discovered that the Free Brethren were not the angelic beings they’d pretended to be. He must have been delighted to find those weapons and the drawings of Mistleham Manor to justify his actions, but he was also suspicious: he wanted to see if the Free Brethren had any secret sympathisers amongst the community in Mistleham. Anyone who might come out here to bury the corpses.’ Corbett paused. Master Benedict’s face had grown paler. He was staring dully into the flames as the memories returned.
‘You,’ Corbett continued, ‘like everyone else, were deeply shocked at Scrope’s ferocious and ruthless attack. You certainly had not planned for that. You never thought a manor lord would attack in the first light of dawn, putting everyone to the sword. You were not there to advise your comrades that Scrope had decided on all their deaths. He had no choice: that painting, not to mention Le Riche. Our robber not only hid his plunder here, he may also have told the Free Brethren all sorts of tales about a secret pact to sell stolen royal goods to a mayor and a powerful lord. Little wonder the Free Brethren were so brutally silenced. Nevertheless, you and your accomplice, Dame Marguerite, became genuinely ill with shock, guilty at bringing your colleagues to such a grisly end. Dame Marguerite had learnt of the Templar threats to her brother; now, through you, she began to issue threats on both your accounts about the Mills of God.’
Corbett picked up the wineskin and threw it across. The chaplain clumsily removed the stopper, gulped greedily and handed it back.
‘Dame Marguerite also told you about the Sagittarius, who’d appeared years ago threatening her brother. You and she decided the Sagittarius must return. First to deal out terror and justice to the good citizens of Mistleham who’d supported Lord Scrope’s attack on the Free Brethren, and second to plan for Scrope’s own death. You chose your victims for execution, innocents in Mistleham. You used Dame Marguerite as your constant disguise, as you did when Wilfred and Eadburga were slaughtered. You were not guarding the door at St Alphege’s; you slipped away to commit horrid murder. Time, however, was passing. To a certain extent you and Dame Marguerite had lost control over events. The massacre, the hanging of Le Riche, and now the King’s men were coming to Mistleham. You plotted furiously. First you, Master Benedict, visited Father Thomas, calling yourself Nightshade. You issued a veiled warning, an ultimatum to Lord Scrope. Of course he recognised the truth behind your message: his evil day had caught up with him. You knew he would not repent. Already you were devising his death. A constant visitor to the manor, residing there with Dame Marguerite, you could hide away bows and arrows. One night you went hunting Scrope’s mastiffs; they also had been involved in the attack on Mordern. More importantly, they were guard dogs. Did you first mix an opiate with their meat?’
Master Benedict just smiled.
‘Then you grasped the bow and arrows Dame Marguerite had smuggled in for you and slipped out into the darkness like the hunter you are. Two arrows for each hound, one to wound and slow your quarry, the second delivering the killing blow.’
‘And then we arrived,’ Ranulf interrupted, ‘but our presence did not deter you.’
‘In a way, Master Benedict,’ Corbett declared, ‘you were pleased at our arrival. The corpses of your comrades were rotting; we ended all that. Nevertheless, you used the occasion to remind Scrope’s men that the Sagittarius was not far. However, the burning of your dead truly disturbed you. You became ill with fury; I witnessed that. You carried out immediate retribution. You discovered that Scrope’s henchman Robert de Scott was wallowing in the Honeycomb. Once again you disappeared into that warren of garrets and chambers above Mistleham marketplace to unleash death before turning on Scrope himself.’
Master Benedict bowed his head and smiled softly. Corbett suspected he was simply hiding his confusion.
‘Dame Marguerite then came into her own. By now she truly hated her brother, as she did his shadow Claypole. She was determined to harm the mayor. She’d always hated his pretensions; I suspect even before your revelations to her. Whilst her brother was away in Acre, Dame Marguerite was the one who removed the blood registers from St Alphege’s – so that if her brother died childless, Master Claypole could make no claim. True?’
‘It’s possible.’ The chaplain kept his head down. ‘Dame Marguerite truly hated Claypole, and if she’d lived, she would have dealt with him.’
‘But first her brother,’ Corbett declared. ‘On the day we burnt the dead at Mordern, you returned to the manor to take Gaston’s ring, which, God forgive his hypocrisy, Scrope had placed on the head of the crucified Saviour. You did this before slipping out into Mistleham to wreak bloody havoc in the marketplace. You strode into that chapel only to be surprised by Lady Hawisa. She came in after you full of rage at her husband and, in the silence of that place, confessed how she had often plotted to kill him with nightshade. She left and so did you, taking the ring to Dame Marguerite as well as the information Lady Hawisa had unwittingly provided.’
Corbett paused and listened to the faint sounds from outside. He thought of the list of murderous deeds this man was responsible for and wondered how Master Benedict could be brought to full justice. First, though, the indictment had to be presented.
‘Lord Scrope was now truly frightened,’ Corbett continued. ‘Dame Marguerite was still acting the role of the loving, loyal sister. Secretly, and I admit this is conjecture, she went to see him. She would act all concerned and anxious, bemoaning how no one could be trusted, how the very walls had ears.’ Corbett shrugged. ‘It would not be too difficult with Scrope haunted and hunted by the past as well as the present. Dame Marguerite would argue that no one could be trusted, not even his wife, who, she told him, also desired to end his life. She offered to bring proof, revelations about the mysterious threats, either herself or through her faithful chaplain. One of you would cross the secret ford and visit him that night in the reclusorium; that was the best place for such a confession to be made, where no one could see or hear.’
‘And Lord Scrope would agree to that?’
‘Why not? What did he fear from his faithful sister or her creature, the whey-faced chaplain? God knows what Dame Marguerite offered, what she said, but Scrope certainly accepted.’
‘But that ford at night?’
‘Nonsense, Master Benedict, you know Mistleham Manor well. You’ve been there for over a year, Dame Marguerite had shown you the place. You may have even practised crossing it. I did once, quite safely. You could do it easily armed with a staff, a rope and a shuttered lantern horn.’
Master Benedict glanced up in surprise. Corbett noted the fear in his eyes, the realisation of how hard the case pressed against him.
‘What had you to fear, cold water? The guards were sheltering well away under some trees. Robert de Scott had been dispatched to hell, the guard dogs slain. Dame Marguerite was ready to swear that you were ill all night. No, no – you safely crossed to the rear of the reclusorium and, as agreed, tapped on a shutter. Lord Scrope, lying on his bed, gets up, pulls aside the drapes, opens the shutters and lets you in. What can
he, a warrior, fear from a pious, unarmed chaplain carrying a small pannier bag? Scrope sits down in his chair and you, all nervous, stand over him. You fumble with the bag but swiftly grasp the dagger and plunge it into Scrope’s heart. In the blink of an eye Scrope was killed because he had been faced with the totally unexpected and had no time to resist, to struggle. You plunged that dagger deep. Scrope tried to grasp the hilt and bloodied his hands. You just stood and watched the life light fade in your enemy’s eyes. You then took the keys from round his neck and ransacked his treasury. You later returned the keys, pulled out your dagger and thrust in the one taken from the crypt at Westminster.’
‘And the poison?’
‘Oh, you may have disturbed the herb plant at the manor, or the nightshade may have been given to you by Dame Marguerite from her stock of powders in the convent infirmary. Anyway, you poured the phial of poison into the jug, then filled that yew cup. A mysterious, mischievous twist that would suggest Lady Hawisa’s guilt. You later departed as you came, through the window, pulling over the drapes, closing the shutter and going back across the ford.’
‘I could have been noticed.’
‘I doubt it. A dark shadow on a black, freezing night? You were no longer the timid chaplain, but a soldier skilled and ruthless.’
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